


Is Rogha Dom Thú

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Marvel
Genre: Drabble, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, everyone loves each other and there's nothing you can do about it, this is simply mind vomit honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:38:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is hard, especially when you're Bucky and Steve. They do it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Rogha Dom Thú

**Author's Note:**

> Plotless drabble! Indulge me :)

Terror - that’s all he feels when he jolts awake, breathing hard and staring around at the room wildly. It pounds in his chest, through his blood, sends his brain spinning into defense mode. He’s got a knife pressed to Steve’s throat in an instance, and the warm hands drop from his skin like he’s a disease. He blinks away the haze, finds himself staring directly at his worst nightmare - far worse than the one he’d just suffered through. 

He drops the knife. 

Steve moves away, still hovering close, unsure but there to offer anything he can do. Bucky kicks the knife off the bed, a rough, vicious move that sends the lump in his throat exploding into tears. Is this his penance? Will he be forced to deal with this every night for the rest of his life? How long must he  _ endure?  _

This has been going on for the past two months, ever since he got the green light to go home with Steve. He sleeps, if he can, and if he does, the dreamland is full of blood and terror and bullets. He wakes up and Steve’s there and Bucky’s about to kill him. And Steve never looks like he’s going to do anything about it. 

It’s slowly killing him. 

He is so, so tired. 

He looks up from where he’s been glaring down at his hands, upturned palms gathering tortured tears, and narrows his eyes at Steve through a glaze of pain. “Why are you  _ doing  _ this?” he asks, voice wrecked from what he assumes was the screaming that drew Steve into his room. 

Steve is tired, too. Bucky can see it the frown pulling his face downwards, and the way his shoulders are constantly slumped. Somehow, that hurts more than the knowledge that Bucky hasn’t slept more than three hours a night in...A long, long time. Steve’s watching him, blue eyes turning grey, and Bucky tenses for the onslaught of kindness that is sure to flow from Steve like sweet syrup.

It doesn’t come. Steve breathes out, a cloud of darkness that seems to hover at his nape more often than not drifting away. Steve slumps down, his body falling towards Bucky’s, and Bucky reaches out to catch him, because that’s what they do. They catch each other. Bucky frowns down at Steve’s shaking body, and then sighs, pulling him in close. Steve’s tears drench Bucky’s shoulder, but when they fall asleep, they stay that way till morning. 

*

A piece of Steve dies every morning he wakes up after a night in Bucky’s arms and Bucky’s not there. Bucky gets even less sleep than he does, but he’s always the first one up. It crawls under Steve’s skin like an unreachable itch, and Steve wants to writhe with it. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls himself together. 

Some days, Bucky doesn’t speak. He putters around the apartment, or curls up in a sunny patch, or simply sits and stares blankly at whatever’s in front of him. Steve knows to stay out of his way on these days. He knows not to leave him alone, to simply be a constant presence. Sometimes, it gets too much, Bucky ghosting around like a blank slate, not knowing what to do. 

But Steve can’t leave, because Bucky needs him. So he swallows it down, lifts his chin and clenches his fists. He’s fine. 

Soldier on, soldier.

Today, Bucky isn’t speaking. Steve, somehow, expected that, and he gathers himself, taking a deep breath, before he steps out into the lounge. Bucky’s on the couch, staring out the massive window, off into the distance. Steve studies him for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before he closes his eyes and allows himself to sink to the floor, leaning against the wall. 

He wonders if he should make something for breakfast, but he’s too exhausted for anything to come of it. 

~ 

He wakes to a palm gently cupping his cheek, unaware that he’d ever been asleep. He blinks his eyes open, finds himself staring up at Bucky, who frowns back down at him. Steve blinks blearily, and then finds himself being  _ swaddled  _ in a micro fleece blanket. Bucky makes him stand up and keep the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and then Steve’s somehow curled up on the couch, staring out at the city outside the window. 

He looks around himself in vague confusion, and some amusement, and finds Bucky sitting down beside him, wrapped in his own blanket. Bucky just looks at him with some level of exasperation, and sits back and watches the clouds roll by. 

Time passes. 

Days like these feel like cotton wool on your tongue and paint under your fingernails. Steve frowns, finding that he wants to say something to break the silence, but he can’t bear to do it. His stomach growls, but Bucky doesn’t even twitch. Steve allows himself to be buried in roiling quiet, and slowly, his mind goes blank. 

More time passes. 

The clouds slow down and the sun drifts below the horizon. There are no lights on in the apartment, and the darkness clings to Steve skin like soap. He closes his eyes, and drifts. In his dreams, he’s waiting for the screaming to start. 

*

Bucky comes too, only slightly disoriented, and finds his hands wrapped around Steve’s neck. He’s drenched in sweat, and breathing heavily, and there’s an echo of smashing glass in his ears. He lets go like he’s on fire, and scrambles backwards, falling over himself. He leans back on his elbows, and doesn’t stop the deep sob from ripping itself from his chest. 

Steve’s next to him in a moment, a gentle, exhausted comfort. Bucky leans into him, and curls up against his chest. They’re on the floor in the lounge, blankets forgotten on the couch. The sun’s starting to rise again - light filtering in and filling the room. Bucky wants to hide from it, but instead he pulls Steve closer. 

Eventually, Steve makes breakfast - two plates piled high with hot foods to make up for yesterday’s lack of eating. They eat in comfortable silence before putting the TV on. Bucky doesn’t watch the screen, instead opting to observe the fading bruises that circle Steve’s neck. 

Today is only minisculey better. 

Still. It’s better than nothing. 

~

He takes a shower, focuses on the soft water drilling against his back instead of the frightening whirlwind tearing his mind apart. For a great length of time, he’d been numb and cold, unfeeling and uncaring. When Steve took him in, Bucky himself had been taken apart and pieced back together, his stunted emotions coming back in full force. 

He feels lost, a lot of the time. 

Steve is his anchor, holding him together when Bucky himself can’t. He gets angry sometimes, about the fact that he’s vulnerable and needs help. Steve is endlessly giving, and Bucky’s not taking advantage of it, they both know. It’s just. Bucky  _ needs  _ help, and he hates having to admit that. 

He gets out of the shower, spends a moment staring at his foggy, blurred image in the mirror. His ears are ringing, echoing with long ago words. He presses his lips into a thin line, and grabs a towel. 

Steve’s waiting in the lounge, of course. They’re going out, visiting friends at Sam’s place. Natalia will be there, as will Clint. It warms Bucky up a little, chasing the ice out of his veins, knowing that Steve’s friends are his friends, too. Steve stands up from the couch, holds out his hand with a smile on his face. Bucky returns it without thinking, lets it grow as he takes Steve’s hand. 

They walk to Sam’s, hands swinging between them and warmth lingering around them like a shadow. There are storm clouds thundering in the distance, and somehow it makes the air thicker. Bucky hunches his shoulders down, walks a little closer to Steve. Steve just glances down at him, concern tugging at his eyebrows but a smile pulling at his lips. 

They get to Sam’s quickly, and are welcomed inside in a hurricane of red hair, heart-filled brown eyes and warm laughter. Bucky takes a seat on the couch, smiling at Steve, who goes to help Sam in the kitchen - they’re having lunch, apparently. Natalia settles down next to Bucky, curling into his side, placing her feet in Clint’s lap, who’s at the other side of the couch. He lifts his arm up for her, letting her get comfortable, and sighs at the pattering rain that’s started up outside. 

“<You’re both exhausted,>” Natalia murmurs, speaking in soft Russian. 

The one thing that shines in all of this leftover hell is all the languages Bucky’s learnt and kept. “<That obvious?>” he asks.

Clint glances over at them, but as always, he isn’t offended by being excluded from the conversation. And in return, no one is ever offended or put out when he and Steve speak in sign language. “<Your under eyes are grey, my darling,>” she points out, reaching up to brush her thumb along one of the bags. 

He gives her a tiny smile. “<We’re working on it.>”

“<Nightmares, still?>” 

“<On both sides,>” he sighs.

Her eyes are full of sorrow, a rare display of nakedness on her face. She hums a small noise of sympathy, and then settles back down against his chest. Bucky rests his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes. He can do that here, in this safe space with these safe people - his friends. Nothing had surprised him more than learning that Natalia was one of his star students back in the Red Room, and that she was willing to forgive him and fall back into step with him. She and Steve had wonderful, unique friendship too, full of love and trust. 

He opens his eyes when he hears Steve and Sam coming into the lounge, but doesn’t lift his head. Natalia shifts a little bit, and he glances down to see her taking an offered cup of tea. She sits up a little to sip at it, and then he lets his attention drift, sliding out of the room and wandering off somewhere.

The others are talking, but they leave him be. He’s offered a drink and some food, but when he can’t find it in him to answer, they let him drift again. Steve has come to sit on the armrest beside him, a warm presence, and Natalia is keeping him grounded on his other side. 

He likes to refer to this as his third life. A second chance, since the second life was hardly a chance. He’s extremely happy with how it’s turning out, so far. 

*

Steve glances down at Bucky, letting his eyes rest on his face for a moment. He looks peaceful, not entirely here, but calm. Steve smiles, and runs his fingertips down the exposed skin of Bucky’s forearm. He feels at peace, too, for the first time in a while, and hums to himself. Clint and Natasha are talking in quiet voices, laughing and grinning at each other with love in their eyes and written all over their faces. Sam’s on the phone, talking to Tony about some upgrade on his wings. 

Steve leans down, and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t startle, but a content hum comes from his throat. 

Emotion overcomes him. Bringing his hand up to brush his knuckles down Bucky’s cheek, he murmurs to him in his first language. “ _ Le gach buille croí Tá mé fágtha, beidh mé grá agat. Tá tú ag rá, níos mó ná a fhios agat. Beidh mé chruthú é sin. _ ”

Bucky stirs, blinking bleariness out of his eyes. He turns his head a little, meets Steve’s gaze. He smiles, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Love you too, sap,” he sighs, and lets his lips ghost over Steve’s before he relaxes back down melts into Steve, still smiling. 

  
Steve’s attention flickers up to Natasha, who’s smiling fondly at him, and he doesn’t blush. He’d yell his love for Bucky to the world, if he could. He just smiles back, and then rests his head on top of Bucky’s. 

**Author's Note:**

> Steve's Irish Gaelic meaning (well, the gist of it. Not the exact translation); With every heartbeat I have left, I will love you. You are loved, more than you know. I will prove it so.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at buckyskillingme


End file.
